


The Knife

by WhiskyNotTea



Series: Whisky's Other Outlander Tales [11]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 19:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17106833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskyNotTea/pseuds/WhiskyNotTea
Summary: Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser is asked to craft a knife and finds love in the new world.





	The Knife

She must have been in the shop for a while, for she was leaning against a table watching him when he noticed her presence. Murtagh wondered if she had tried to catch his attention with a faint greeting or a cough, only to have her attempts swallowed by the clanging of the iron in his hands. He had felt her eyes upon him, raising the fine hair at the nape of his neck, and set his hammer down on the worn wooden counter. Brushing the sweat off his temples he had turned around, expecting Euan to be there, asking if his axe was ready.

It wasn’t often that he would see a lass standing in front of him, ready to give him instructions about the work she wanted him to do. The blacksmith’s shop was the domain of men. Men knew how they wanted their tools, their weapons, and - once in a while - their jewellery to be. And they demanded him to make them exactly as they had imagined them.

Murtagh smiled at the thought of his godson, giving the key of Lallybroch to Lard Bucket and Big Head to make Claire’s wedding band. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed with difficulty. 

Ah Dhia, those days.

The lass took a step towards him, bringing him back to the present. She wore a shy smile on her face and her ever-moving fingers fiddled with the fabric of her skirts. She clasped her hands in front of her in an attempt to stop the movement, but her fingers immediately fell free, only to interlace again a few seconds later.

“How can I help ye, mistress?” Murtagh asked softly, sensing her unease. 

“I…” she hesitated. He saw her taking a deep breath to steady herself, and her eyes met his, big and grey and clear. “I need a knife,” she announced.

It was in her voice, that Murtagh recognized it. Then, he saw it in her posture. She was a woman, not a lass. 

“What kind of knife, mistress?” he asked, his brow low in thought.

“A sharp one.” She swallowed, her throat’s muscles working hard to keep her feelings inside. 

Murtagh raised an eyebrow and his lips curled skywards, just a bit. A feisty one, she was. 

“See,” he explained, “The way I’ll craft it depends on the use ye’ll have for it.”

The woman took a step towards him, and then another, her skirts rustling against her legs. She stopped then, and raised herself to her full height. She wasn’t tall, but she carried herself with defiance and grace as she came to stand closer to him. Murtagh could see her clearly now. He could read the tales of laughter and tears in the wrinkles of her face, heard life’s whispers as it danced on those pink lips, kissed the red cheeks, caressed the broad forehead.

“I need it to defend myself,” she stated, looking him straight in the eye. “I was told ye’re an honest man, and I need yer craft. I have the coin,” she added at last, and Murtagh saw her fists moving from her sides to the front of her stomach and, slowly unclenching, fingers moving with an almost imperceptible tremble to remove a silver band from her slim wedding finger. “Here,” she said, extending her hand towards him. “‘Tis silver.”

“I canna accept that as payment, mistress,” he said, and his thick eyebrows moved closer to each other.

“And why is that?” she objected, with a flame in her eyes and a jaw set, ready for battle.

“‘Tis yer wedding ring, aye?” he asked, and she nodded. “And what will yer husband say, when he sees ye wi’out his ring?” Shadows came to settle upon her face, shadows that had nothing to do with the fire and the dimness in his shop. “It’s yer husband ye need protection from?” he asked the moment the thought came to him. His voice was low and he moved closer to her.

The woman looked at him startled, as if the idea of a husband hurting his wife had never crossed her mind. “No!” she protested. “But he canna help me either, now. I need to keep my girls safe.”

“He’s passed, then?” Murtagh restrained his hands in his pockets, trying to keep them away from her body. He felt the urge to console her, to protect her from the threats she had to face. But she was a stranger, and he had no place to do such things.

“He has.” A sigh followed her words and her chest deflated, making her look ten years younger. Innocent, vulnerable. 

“I’m not taking yer wedding ring.” Murtagh raised his hand between them, in an attempt to stop the rebound ready to leave her lips. “But I’ll make a knife for ye,” he added, his eyes looking deep into hers.

The woman let out a deep breath and smiled a smile so sweet it made his heart melt, iron in her fire. “But how will I pay ye?” she asked, concerned.

“D’ye ken how to use a knife, a nighean?” he changed the subject, and his mind trailed years back, to another lass, with wild brown curls and an even more riotous mind. To a moor in Scotland, full of boisterous laughter. To a world that was lost.

“I ken how to use it in my kitchen,” she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh aye?” he laughed. Years and years had passed without laughing at a woman’s wit. “‘Tis not the same as using it to a man, ye ken. And since I’m the one who gives ye the knife, I think it falls on me to teach ye, too.”

“Ye will?” Her eyes shone with gratitude. “Will ye do that for me?”

“And yer girls.” He tilted his head slightly towards the door, where a wee lassie about seven or eight years old looked at him with fear and awe in her gaze. 

“Come here, mo chridhe.” The girl ran to her mam, hiding behind her skirts. “This is Janet,” she said, without noticing the mist appearing in Murtagh’s eyes.

“Verra pleased to meet ye, Janet.”

God, to say this name aloud again, after so many years. This girl didn’t look like theJanet of his memories, but the name alone was enough to make him shiver. The name, and her mother’s grey eyes.

“Hello,” the girl’s voice shook, but her smile was just as beautiful as her mother’s. 

“I’m Murtagh,” he introduced himself and crouched to look at her. His hand moved without him registering it, and he tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear.

“She has her father’s hair,” her mother explained. “My name is Annie. Annie MacGraham.” 

Murtagh stood up again and bowed, making her chuckle. “Thank ye for yer kindness, Mr…” she hesitated.

“Fraser,” Murtagh added. “But ye can call me Murtagh.”

“Thank ye, Murtagh.” Words rumbling straight from her heart, true and honest. He drank them in, like the world’s finest whisky.

Murtagh looked at her for a long moment, feeling his heart beating faster in his chest, his hands idle on his sides, unsure of what to do. “I’ll have it ready in three days’ time,” he said at last. 

“I’ll come back in three days, then,” she said, taking Janet by the hand. “And then ye’ll teach me how to use it.”

–

Annie didn’t wait for three days.

She went back the day after, with a meat pie in hand. And the day after that, with fresh baked bread. The third day, Annie went to pick up her knife and Murtagh taught her how to defend herself. How to fight and kill, with the knife he made for her.

But Annie never came to use her knife. It found its place on a kitchen self, shining under the reddish glow of the hearth, under the same flames that made Janet’s eyes glint as she giggled at one of Murtagh’s jokes.

That day at the blacksmith’s, Annie had taken an old, well-used knife together with hers. And it was Murtagh’s knife that would kill for her.


End file.
